


Burning Up

by EtLaBete



Series: Coalesce [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angsty Reaper, Did I Mention Angst?, Fist Fights, Gabriel Needs a Hug, M/M, Reaper feels, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtLaBete/pseuds/EtLaBete
Summary: As Talon burns, Reaper finds Jack Morrison again, and he's given a choice he's not sure he's ready to make.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. Reaper76 is eating up my brain. 
> 
> This is a sequel to Give up the Ghost. Read that first. Also, prepare yourself for angst central.

Reaper finds him on a roof about a block away from the explosion. 

Jack isn’t wearing his visor, and he sits with his legs hanging off the side of the building. Even draped in shadows, Reaper can tell he’s had a hell of a night from the jagged tears in his jacket and the dark splotch soaking through at his shoulder. He seems relaxed, though, hunched forward and head tilted to the side. A six-pack of beer sits next to him, and he’s already got one bottle in hand. He raises it to his lips and takes a long swallow; the condensation dripping down the dark glass glows red from the nearby fire that rages. 

“Want one?” Jack asks without turning around. “Still cold.” 

Reaper stares at the back of his head for a few seconds before he reaches up and hits the release on his mask. The air is humid, and the hot breeze carries the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and burning flesh to his nostrils. Once upon a time it might have invigorated him, but he finds that tonight, it just enhances the weary exhaustion that makes his bones feel like lead. It’s been a long night, a long _life_ , and he’s tired. The fire is eating up the last of his restraints. He should feel happier, should be elated that it’s so close to being over— this nearly seven year hunt for the organization that ruined his life—but instead he feels unhinged and too light, like he could turn to ash and stay that way, unable or maybe just unwilling to coalesce. 

It brings him to the million dollar question: what is he supposed to do now? 

He must take too long to answer Jack's question, too tangled up in his own, because Jack finally looks over his shoulder. He hasn’t seen the man, not up close, since that night in the safe house, and Jack’s face is enough to pull Reaper from the edge of his own dark thoughts. Dried blood is smeared across his forehead, cheek, and the curve of his nose, the result of another wound which will be another scar added to the many that already line his pale skin. There’s a bruise on his temple, too, and dirt and ash dusted over silver stubble. 

“Well?” Jack grabs an unopened bottle of beer with his free hand and wiggles it in the air gently. “It’s fancy beer.” 

Something explodes in the fire down the street, a loud boom echoing over the building facades, but Jack doesn’t turn towards it. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on Reaper, and for a moment, the increase in firelight erases the creases on his face and makes Jack look years younger. Reaper itches to touch him, the urge so strong he has to curl his hands into fists.

Jack tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “It’s watermelon flavored.” 

The corners of Reaper’s lips quirk before he can stop himself because Jack remembers his affinity for overpriced beer. He does what he can to school his expression, but not fast enough, apparently; Jack bites at his bottom lip— trying not to smile, the bastard. He eventually just huffs a laugh. 

“Time’s running out,” he comments easily and then turns back around. “Drink up while it’s still quiet.” 

Jack isn’t wrong. Time is running out, and Reaper thinks he should leave before the newly formed Overwatch agents show up and ruin his night, but he sighs instead and says,“Why the fuck not.” He might not have another chance depending on how things go. 

He sits down a few feet from Jack and keeps the six-pack between them, as if something so small and flimsy could keep them apart when death couldn’t, but Reaper finds that he needs it. He needs the separation because right now, right here, otherwise all he can think about is what this _means_ and how much he wants to reach out and touch. He focuses instead on removing his gloves, pulling them off with measured movements.

Jack uncaps the beer and hands it to him when he’s done. 

“To Talon’s destruction,” he says. “Cheers.” 

“Cheers,” Reaper grunts, clinking his bottle to the other man’s. 

They both take a drink. The frothy beer is cool and light with just the slightest hint of watermelon and maybe lime. Reaper doesn’t remember the last time he drank anything but cheap, piss-esque beer and hard liquor that burned, but he does remember taking leave with Jack back in the day. They drove to bumfuck nowhere, settled down on top of the car in the middle of clearing with a six-pack of similarly fancy beer, and did nothing except lay in the sun, shoulders and thighs barely touching. He remembers feeling this itch back then, too, remembers finally pinning Jack to the hood of the car on the last night of their trip and staring down into wide, blue eyes. Jack had kissed him first, the tips of his fingers tracing the angles of Gabriel’s face before he leaned up. Jack’s mouth tasted like hops and coriander, and his skin tasted like sweat, and Gabe’s name gasped on his lips sounded like a prayer while Gabe moved inside of him. 

“You do realize this isn’t the end of Talon,” he rasps, anything to pull himself back to the present and away from a time he can’t go back to. 

Jack shrugs beside him. “I know. But it feels damn good to watch a big chunk of it burn.” 

Reaper doesn’t reply. Sirens scream in the distance. Overwatch will be here soon, and he needs to be gone when they show up because he’s still a criminal with a price on his head, and he knows they’ll do whatever they can to bring him in because they don’t know that he’s the one who razed Talon to the ground from the inside. Jack will get the credit, most likely, and that realization burns less than he thought it would. 

He can’t help but wonder when and if Winston’s figured it out yet— that the terrorist known as Reaper received the call to arms on a technicality because Reaper kept that stupid fucking phone. 

“So what does this mean?”

“What?” Reaper snaps and turns to look at the other man.

Jack stares forward. His face is highlighted golden and his eyebrows are drawn together in some deeply thoughtful expression that makes Reaper’s stomach knot up. 

“You and me,” Jack says, more quietly this time. “What does this mean for you and me?” 

Reaper tenses. Jack doesn’t spell it out, and he doesn’t have to because it’s the same thought that’s been rattling inside of Reaper’s brain since he set the charges and then hit the go button. _What now?_  It's even more complicated with Jack involved because it isn’t about a vigilante and a terrorist burying the hatchet; this is about two war-torn men with more history than either of them can bear dropping it once and for all and rekindling a fire that obviously hasn’t gone out. Except there’s so much ash cluttering the foundation— ash that literally _leaks_ from Reaper’s body like a fire that refuses to burn but won't die, either— that he doesn’t know if there’s any saving it. 

The worst part is, he knows why the fire puts up a fight and won't reignite. He loves Jack and he  _yearns_ for Jack, but he hasn’t forgiven Jack. He doesn’t even care about the promotion, not anymore. Once upon a time it turned him bitter, but here and now, he knows it’s water under the bridge. No, the real issue is that he hasn’t forgiven Jack for not believing in him. It stings, and it steels Reaper. 

“There is no you and me anymore,” he growls. 

“Bullshit,” Jack says immediately, but there’s no anger behind it. He just sounds tired. “There will always be a you and me, Gabriel. The last year’s taught me that.”

Blackness rises from the fingers curled around the beer bottle like steam. He’s not sure what’s boiling inside of him— anger, indignation, fear of having to admit that Jack is right— and he _hates_ _all it_. “You don’t get to decide that on your own,” he sneers. 

“So decide with me.” A pause, and then, his voice rough and hopeful, “Decide to be with me.” 

Reaper’s heart skips a beat, and the sudden spike in blood pressure has his fingers phase out enough that the bottle slips. It hits the sidewalk below a few seconds later, and the glass shatters, foam spraying everywhere. The sound is sharp enough that Reaper hears it over the wail of the firetrucks that have finally pulled up in front of the burning building down the block. 

It’s the sound of his resolve breaking because yeah, Jack is right. He’s been wrapped up in the other man since the moment they met, and he’s not enough of a boyscout to untangle that kind of knot. 

Jack's a boyscout, though. Reaper has no doubt he could untangle the knot and get the fire going in the same breath. 

Reaper bows his head and laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs until smoke pours freely out of his mouth because who the hell was he to think he could ever get away from Jack fucking Morrison, the man who came into his life like a goddamned Adonis and broke through the carefully crafted boundaries Gabriel Reyes erected long before he ever met him?

He can’t stop laughing, but he’s still with it enough to offer Jack a sidelong glance. The other man doesn’t move at first, just stares down at the shards of glass below. The more Reaper laughs, the more Jack tenses until he’s like a bow string ready to release. There’s something different about his expression, something hard that reminds Reaper of all those years passing each other in Overwatch’s halls when he mastered shuttering anger, sadness, and whole lot else behind a stony facade just the way Gabriel taught him. Reaper sees the moment he makes some decision by the way his lips tightened into a thin line, and then he drops his own beer bottle.

The resounding crash grates at his nerves even though it doesn't sound any different. Reaper hears it now, the utter finality of the sound, and alarms start going off throughout his body— heart thudding agains this ribcage, mind racing, chest tight, cells vibrating so hard he has to grit his teeth and tense his entire body to keep them together. They all tell him to move, that Jack isn’t reading him right, but he doesn’t, just watches, laughter dying on his tongue, as the other man climbs to his feet and clicks the visor back into place. He rolls his shoulder, the one soaking his jacket with blood, and doesn’t spare Reaper another glance. 

“Keep the rest,” Jack says, motioning to the half-empty six pack. “Goodbye, Gabe.” 

Something inside of Reaper roars back to life and starts trying to claw its way out. Reaper wishes it was resentment and fury, but he’s pretty sure it’s fear. Cold-blooded fear that Jack is turning his back on him _again_. 

“So you’re just going to leave?” Reaper snaps. 

The crunch of boots on rubble stops. He hears a deep exhale, and then, “Excuse me?” 

Fire sears through Reaper’s veins and blackness hisses from his skin. He struggles to keep form. “You give me this heartfelt bullshit about how there will always be a you and I, and then you just up and leave because I dropped a goddamned bottle and laughed about it?” Reaper swats none-too-gently at the six pack. It goes over the side of the building just in time for Jack to turn around. “You’re a fucking coward, Morrison.” 

“That beer wasn’t cheap,” Jack states, voice cracking slightly. 

“Shut up,” Reaper snarls and stands. “Just shut up for once, Morrison, and stop trying to play the goddamned martyr.”

He can all but see Jack’s hackles rising. He squares his shoulders and bows his head, hands fisted at his sides. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. I didn’t reinsert myself back into your life—“ 

Reaper cuts him off with a harsh laugh that burns his throat. “You sent me messages for years!”

“I thought you were _dead_ when I sent them!” 

“I am!” Reaper sneers, and he barely hesitates when he adds, “thanks to _you_.” 

 He sees it in the way Jack’s posture changes, how he bends his knees the slightest bit and tightens his core, but Reaper only has about a second and a half to ground himself before the other man charges and tackles him. His body’s immediate reaction is to dematerialize so Jack eats a face full of debris, but he grits his teeth against it and keeps himself whole. The impact pushes the air out of his lungs along with a mouthful of black smoke. 

They hit the roof hard enough that even Jack grunts. Reaper ignores the stinging pain of rocks digging into his back through the leathers and bucks up, trying to dislodge Jack, but the other man bears down. Nostalgia hits him almost as hard as Jack, and it’s all he can do not to laugh at the bitter irony of how it’s just like when they were back in training, except more brutal. Jack sits across his thighs and slams his fist straight into Reaper’s nose, once, twice, and an attempt for a third time before Reaper grabs his fist and twists until Jack snarls behind the visor. He manages a punch with his free hand to Reaper’s solar plexus, which stalls the breath trying to leave his lungs, but it leaves Jack open, and Reaper jabs his knuckles straight into Jack’s windpipe.

He splutters, his weight edging backwards. He keeps a hand planted firmly on Reaper’s face to hold him down, leather-clad fingers digging into the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. Reaper growls, curls his fist, and wails into the Soldier’s side where his kidney should be so hard he can feel it reverberate up his arm. He considers digging his fingers into the wound on the other man’s shoulder, but he can’t quite bring himself to stoop that low.

Jack lifts his head up like he’s palming a basketball and slams it back into the roof top, hard enough that Reaper’s ears ring, black spots dance along his vision, and his hold on his violently vibrating cells weakens. 

 _Fuck this_ , he thinks, and curls his hand around Jack’s shoulder. He waits until Jack’s finally caught his breath, then he squeezes. Jack roars and grabs his wrist, nearly breaking it in the struggle to pry Reaper off of him. 

Jack’s distracted by the pain, so Reaper uses his lack of focus to buck upwards again, forcing Jack far enough back on Reaper’s thighs that he’s able to get a knee between them and push. Jack tries to lunge forward, but they only smash together and end up with Reaper on top of him. Jack throws punches at the sides of Reaper’s head, and a few of them land. Reaper ignores them and the blood dripping down his face, planting a firm hand to Jack’s injured shoulder and pushing down. Jack grabs at his forearm, trying to relieve the pressure, garbled, modulated hisses and groans filtering through the visor. 

It hits him, suddenly, how angry he is that Jack is allowed to hind behind his goddamned mask when Reaper’s still sits fifteen feet away. With his lip curling back in a snarl, he grabs at Jack’s face until his fingers find the release. When it hisses open, he all but pries the tech from the other man’s face, tosses it to the side, and looks down. 

Jack’s face is contorted into an angry grimace. Fresh blood drips down from his forehead, the head wound reopened by Reaper’s fist. His eyes are so goddamned blue, even in the dim glow of the nearby street light.

He isn’t sure who grabs at whose face first, but the next thing Gabe knows, his hands are curled around Jack’s neck, thumbs dragging over the curve of his jaw, and Jack’s hands are cupping his cheeks, and their lips fit together as perfectly as they ever did. Jack tastes bitter and sweet from the beer, a little bit coppery from whoever’s blood is in their mouths, and Gabe can’t get enough. His pulse beats in his ears like a drum, thrumming through him until he can barely feel his own limbs. His body shudders, and he thinks this might be too much, might be what finally breaks the steadfast hold he’s kept on his body so far. 

“Gabriel,” Jack whispers against his lips.

“I know,” Gabe rasps. “I know.”

Except he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he should do now that most of Talon is burning to the ground a few hundred feet from him. He doesn’t know what to do with the man beneath him who is peppering kisses to the corners of his lips like they’re a couple of teenagers and not touch-starved dead men with enough baggage to sink the goddamned Titanic. 

He doesn’t know if he can _do this_ to himself again, is what it boils down to. He doesn't know if he can burn up for Jack Morrison a second time because he would. He would burn up for him every goddamned time. 

“Bloody hell, luvs,” a voice to their right says, followed by a low whistle. “I expected a bit of a show with the explosion and all, but this takes the cake, innit?” 

All the heat coursing through his body is immediately iced by the English lilt. He knows that voice, and it means one thing: Overwatch is here, and they’re about to know exactly who Reaper really is if Jack hasn’t told them already. He would laugh at how ridiculous the entire situation was if he wasn’t too busy planning an immediate escape. 

“Uh,” Jack states, tense beneath him. Then he laughs, and the sound is like music to Gabe’s ears even though it also makes him want to punch the other man right in the face.

He needs to get out _now,_ so he starts to pull back, but Jack’s hold on him tightens. 

“You got it, didn’t you?” Jack asks him. 

Gabe stiffens. “What?”

“The call.” Almost sheepishly, Jack admits,  “I know that you did. I may have looked at Winston’s records. He had your old number on file.” 

“You sneaky bugger!” Tracer exclaims above them, and Gabriel doesn’t even need to see her to know she’s got her hands on her hips and a pout on her lips. “He’s gonna lay into you, he is. How’d you even get Athena to let you in the mainframe? I’ve been tryin’ to weasel my way in for ages!” 

Gabe hisses out a breath and ducks his head further. “This can’t be happening.” 

“Gabe,” Jack whispers, breath hot against his ear. His hands tighten in Gabe’s clothing, like he can keep him here by sheer will. “It’s not too late for us to try again and do the right thing this time.” 

 _Do the right thing._ The words strike a chord in Gabriel, and it’s not a good one. He’s always tried to do the right thing, and where did it land him? Alone. Burning up. Nearly dead on Angela Ziegler’s table one minute with his body tearing itself apart the next. He doesn’t know what the right thing is now, and he feels pressured— cornered, even—with Tracer standing over them. 

“I can’t do this here,” he sneers back. 

“Gabe, please—” 

Reaper presses a quick kiss to Jack’s temple, and Jack must know what it means because his tight hold turns into a goddamned bear hug, but it doesn't do a damned thing to hold Reaper down once his entire body erupts into smoke. 

Jack coughs and climbs to his feet, wincing as he presses a hand to his shoulder.  “Gabriel!” he snaps, looking around in a panic. “Don't go! Please!”

Reaper coalesces just long enough to grab his gloves and mask and glance at Jack. Jack looks wrecked, his eyes shining and his face lined with something— grief, fear, disappointment, a healthy mix of all three— and he stands there besides Tracer, who’s staring at him with her lips slightly open and her eyes wide behind her tinted goggles, like she just realized who he was.

So Jack didn’t give him up.

“It’s good to see you,” Tracer says, almost wonderingly, then smiles coyly, cheeks dimpling, and adds, “Gabi.”

Reaper swallows the sudden lump in his throat at the nickname. He makes eye contact with Jack once more-- Jack, who's pleading with his eyes but has this resigned expression softening his features-- and then Reaper dissipates, mingling with the smoke billowing throughout the city until he's far, far away. 

 


	2. Two

Reaper follows the news over the next few weeks and watches from afar as Talon falls to pieces. 

He was smart when he burned down the base. He set the charges in a way that guaranteed the server computer wouldn’t be compromised and melted before the authorities got there. It takes them a few days, but he knows when the encryption on the files have been broken because each remaining Talon safe house and base is found and systematically raided. 

It spirals from there. Widowmaker is taken into custody. Overwatch gains favor with the public, and there’s a hearing scheduled with the UN. Reaper has no doubt that it will be allowed to legally reform on a temporary, probationary basis. Overwatch, for all of its faults, had a foundation of gold.  He hopes it will go better this time. It has to. He doesn’t know if any of them could handle another shattering event like the one that dragged them apart. 

Reaper’s not left out of the equation. It’s well known that the masked terrorist was a Talon operative, and his sudden disappearance is making people nervous. News segments discuss his whereabouts and his endgame, and there’s a slew of speculation clogging up social media. Overwatch stays quiet. 

Reaper watches all of this unfold with a strange sense of numbness. He knows the detachment he feels isn’t normal, that there should be something else there, something like closure since Talon’s been torn down to its bones, or maybe anger because Overwatch is taking credit for his work _again_ , but he just feels tired and alone. He did it to himself, of course, and that’s the worst part. Self-imposed exile means he’s not allowed to wallow.  

And yet, he can’t erase the image of Jack asking him to stay. Some nights, he’s still not sure if he made the right call. 

Reaper is actually surprised that he doesn’t hear from Jack, and maybe that bothers him most of all. He expected message after message, just like before, and he keeps the cell phone on for that reason, but the device stays quiet. He finds himself time and time again with his fingers lingering over the keyboard, ready to type out a message, but he always manages to stop himself.  What would he even say? The pitiful thoughts that crop up when he isn’t strictly monitoring his brain aren’t ones he would voluntarily share. They’re a depressing combination of things like, _Sorry I ran out on you_ , and _I miss you, Jack_ , and, _Make me trust you again._

 No. He’s had time to think, and he’s better off staying silent and cutting ties. No matter how much he wants it, there’s too much separating him from the others, especially Jack. Years, actions, blood, regret, betrayal. He’s always worked better alone, only ever gave that up because some blond kid from rural Indiana grinned at him with blood in his teeth after Gabriel flung him to the mat during training. It wasn’t even the brilliant, determined smile, but the way he climbed back to his feet, fists up, ready for more.

But he can’t think about it— won’t think about it— because Jack doesn’t reach out.  Probably for the best, he thinks, because it’ll make it easier to to finally cut ties. He burnt Talon down, and now it’s time to burn the rest. 

***

Nearly six weeks after the fire, Reaper’s tired of ghosting from city to city in an effort to stay off of anyone’s radar. He ends up back in Dorado and finds a decent apartment with cheap rent in a low-income part of the city. The land lady is an older, severe looking woman who lost a few sons in the Omniac Wars, and when Reaper explains to her that he’s done bad things, but he’s trying to burn bridges and start a new life, she pats him on the shoulder and nods like she understands. She shrugs off his offer of more money to stay quiet about her new tenant, gives him a key, and tells him he can come up for dinner later that night because he looks skinny under all the black clothes.

He doesn’t take her up on the offer, but it soothes some of the raw ache inside of him. She reminds him of his _abuelita_ , small but mighty, and he imagines this won’t be the last time she offers to feed him a meal.

He wonders how long he’ll be able to hold out. 

The apartment is homey and partially furnished, and Reaper’s got enough money stashed away to take care of the rest. There’s a real kitchen and a nice shower with a floral print shower curtain, and the bed is the most comfortable thing he’s slept on in the last five years. The first night, he falls asleep and wakes up nearly fourteen hours later, and it’s the most stable his body’s felt in a long time. 

He gets a television, but he doesn’t bother with a computer. He doesn’t want to leave any tracks if he can help it. The phone— the goddamned phone he can’t convince himself to throw away— is enough of a liability. 

Reaper finds that most of the neighborhood functions like the old land lady. It’s a tight-knit community, and while everyone knows everyone else’s business, they don’t speak a word to outsiders. He keeps as much of himself hidden with long sleeved shirts, hoodies, and hats regardless because the vitiligo is still startling, but no one does anything more than take a quick second glance. It’s a blessing because he can’t wear the mask, can’t risk someone recognizing him and reporting it to Overwatch or the police. Plus, now that Overwatch has regrouped, old posters are finding their ways into shops. Old posters with his face. With Jack’s. 

He avoids those shops. 

Overall, it’s startlingly domestic, and he’s mostly convinced himself he’s chosen wisely. 

Until the goddamned phone buzzes. 

He’s in the shower one night when he hears it vibrate on his nightstand. It clatters against the wood, buzzing violently. Reaper freezes. He’s been waiting to hear that sound for weeks, but now that it’s happening, he’s not sure what he’s going to do. After nearly a full minute of staring at water swirling down the drain, he forces himself to finish washing up. He dries off, aware that the frenetic thud of his pulse has already upset the stable balance his cells have maintained this week, before he walks towards the device and picks it up. 

It’s not a number he recognizes. The twist in his gut is enough to make him sit heavily on the bed. He considers putting himself out of his misery and finally crushing the phone, erasing the last connection he has to Jack, but he can’t stop himself from checking the message first. 

       _Answer the call._

He bows his head and sucks in a breath. When he exhales, blackness leaks out. He feels like crying, both from relief and disappointment, but he swallows it down and buries it beneath the anger instead. 

_Who is this?_ he replies. 

_Your new boss._

Ah, Reaper thinks. Winston finally figured it out. Or Tracer told him. He would put money on it being the latter. Lena was never great at keeping secrets. 

His fingers feel like lead as he types out: _You’ve got the wrong number._

_I don’t think I do, Gabriel._

Reaper doesn’t respond. 

_Angela wants to speak with you. She can find a way to stabilize your cells. She’s been working on it all this time._

Reaper’s jaw twitches and his body vibrates. Smoke rises from his bare shoulders. He thinks he might be burning up from the inside out.

       _Come home._

The sound that slips from his lips is some combination of a roar and a sob. He hits the button that locks the screen and stares down at it, the phone shaking in his hand. He wonders for a brief moment if he would accept the offer if Jack was the one to ask. He doesn’t want Overwatch back, has outgrown that skin and then some, but he would probably stomach it for Jack.

It infuriates him, how after everything that’s transpired, he would still push his needs aside for Jack fucking Morrison. 

He shuts the phone down.  

He doesn’t turn it back on. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was short, but I liked it better on its own instead of combined with what's left for me to write.


	3. Three

“ _Gabriel_ ,” his landlady says as he hands her the bag of groceries he picked up on his way home, “stay for dinner, _por favor_.”

 Her cozy kitchen smells like chicken, spices, and herbs, and it reminds Gabriel of home. He’s tempted to take her up on her offer because he’s hungry and tired— it wouldn’t be the first time he’s caved since he moved into the building nearly a year before—but as much as he wants to be weak to her unabashed prodding because the woman is more persistent than a starving mosquito out for blood, he’s running on fumes and too afraid that he’ll burst into smoke in her kitchen. 

Not that he thinks she would even bat an eye, but some secrets he can’t divulge, not even for green chile chicken.

So, instead, he smiles apologetically and says, “ _Gracias_ , _pero_ —”

The old woman rolls her eyes and swats at him before he can finish the excuse. “ _Basta_ , _basta_ ,” she huffs, used to him declining her invitations. “I will bring you a plate later.”

Something warm swells in his chest and Gabe allows her to grab his hand. Her skin is weathered and calloused, not unlike his own, and Gabe squeezes back before bidding her goodnight and leaving via the back door so he can head downstairs to his own apartment. 

His life is nothing like he thought it would be. A year ago, he was still drifting from Talon safe house to Talon safe house, face hidden behind a mask, and now he goes to the grocery store for an old woman who regularly leaves meals on his kitchen table even though he asks her not to enter his apartment when he isn’t there even though she owns the building. 

He tries not to think about what could have been. He learned a long time ago that it wasn’t a viable road to go down. 

He’s so tangled up in his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the man sitting on his living room couch, but the scent of cigarillo smoke hits on too many of his memories for him to bypass it. He turns abruptly, cells already vibrating and ready to disperse, and finds Jesse McCree there, dimly illuminated by the meager street light leaking in through the small living room window, his cowboy hat angled down over his face. He lounges, long legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, and doesn’t make a move even as he and Gabriel lock gazes.

Dread settles in Gabriel’s stomach. He’s not sure what kind of omen the cowboy is, but he’d wager it’s not a good one. 

“Fancy seein’ you here,” Jesse says lightly, but Gabriel knows better than to trust the calm drawl. 

“How did you find me?” he rasps and closes the door behind him, not taking his eyes off of the cowboy. 

“I’m a very creative man when it comes to eavesdroppin’,” Jesse replies, the red light of the cigarette bobbing as his lips move. “I wondered if it was you, ya know. The fightin’ style tugged on my heartstrings somethin’ fierce, but I didn’t think it could be true considerin’ I went to your funeral and all. Considerin' I helped ‘em bury ya.”

The dread starts to solidify in Gabe’s stomach. He’s pretty sure his lungs are already smoking, trickling apart piece by piece and if he exhales, blast dust will cloud the space between them. He need to calm down, because there’s nothing for the rest of his body to do but follow when that happens. 

Jesse isn’t going to make it easy, though. 

“Finally clicked when I heard Lena speakin’ to Winston a month or so ago regardin’ Talon and Reaper and our mopey ex-Commander.” Jesse’s jaw twitches like he’s trying not to snarl. “I put the pieces together from there. Was a bit perturbed with myself that I had ‘em but didn’t put ‘em together sooner.”

Gabriel can’t help but remember the way Jack put his face in his hands, distraught that he didn’t recognize the Reaper for who he truly was. He see some of that reflected back in Jesse’s face, except unlike Jack, who was wracked with guilt and anger directed at himself, Jesse’s anger is definitely directed outward. He’s pinned Gabe with a look like this before, way back when he wrenched Jesse from the life he knew into a better one without choice. He’d been a tornado of fury back then, so amazingly jaded at such a young age. His gaze had burned with anger. Betrayal. 

Distrust. 

Gabriel hates that it stings. He grits his teeth against the feeling, pushing it down. He needs to focus, not reminisce. “But how did you find me here?” 

“Been stationed in Dorado for the last twelve days. Heard stories about a ghost who hunts the _Los Muertos_ gang. People are more’n happy to talk about it, seein’ as they haven’t had a hero to call their own since Soldier: 76 moved on to bigger things.”

Gabriel forces himself not to react even though a chill ripples down his spine. Jesse is trying to goad him into reacting, and he won’t. He _can’t_. 

“Once I had an inklin’, though,” the younger man continues, his words sharpening, “I just had to follow the gunfire.” His jaw moves some more, like he’s grinding his teeth this time, and Gabe is surprised he doesn’t bite the cigarette in half. “And here you are. Gabriel fuckin’ Reyes, alive and well.”

Gabriel almost laughs at that. He guesses he is technically alive, but he wouldn’t say he’s well. It’s a moot point, though, not worth arguing over when there’s so much else hanging over them. Jesse would tear him apart, even more than Morrison ever could because Jesse stuck around through it all, almost until the very end.

He doesn’t speak and focuses on his heartbeat instead, willing it to slow down. He’s losing control fast, and his body is aching, the bone-deep ache that only comes when he struggles tooth and nail to keep it all together. 

 They stare at each other, unmoving, until Jesse sighs and unfolds his arms. He palms the top of his hat with his prosthetic hand, removing it from his head, and runs his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair. The gesture hits Gabe just like the scent of cigarette, right in the chest. He remembers watching Jesse do this in debriefings when he was chastised for being too risky, for nearly getting himself killed. Such a carefree, exasperated move. 

It just makes Jesse look tired now. 

“Well, you know what they say,” the cowboy says eventually, placing his hat in his lap. “Water under the bridge, _jefe_. Anyway, I ain’t here for me.” 

Gabe manages to snap, “Then why _are_ you here?” 

He sees the emotions flash across Jesse’s face, quick as lightning, but he schools them and tilts his head to the side. “I ain’t the only one stationed in Dorado.”

Gabriel clenches his fists and blackness rises from them. Whatever control he was holding onto starts to dissolve at the insinuation. The smoke trickles from his lips to unlike Jesse’s cigarillo smoke as he speaks. “If you’re trying to stick your nose—”

“I ain’t here for you, neither,” Jesse snarls, and the cigarette finally snaps in two. The cowboy dashes at the lit end to die it out before it burns through his serape and spits the butt out onto the floor. “He’s stationed here with me and D.Va. You got no excuses now.”

“I have no excuses?” Gabriel asks on a rough, nasty laugh, and he can’t help but think about the stupid. Fucking. Phone. The phone he still turns on, here and there, when he manages to drink enough to bypass his super soldier metabolism and get himself drunk. The phone that never does a goddamn thing now except haunt him. Gabriel’s upper lip curls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jesse smiles, cocksure and dangerous, the same way he smiles right before he shoots six men in the head in rapid succession. “That’s where you’d be mistaken.”

Gabe’s heart skips a beat in his chest. 

“I wondered all them months ago, just after Talon kicked the bucket, why he put up such a goddamned stink ‘bout that ancient phone o’ his. Had a right tantrum when Winston told him he wouldn’t be able to get the thing workin’ again— somethin’ ‘bout antique parts and newer models. The ape refused to reload all the old numbers, too, which I found confusin’. Why was he so adamant about Jack movin’ on? Winston’s words, mind you, not mine.” Jesse laughs and shakes his head, then flicks a lock of hair out of his face. “Now I know. It all makes sense, and goddamn. Who’d have thought we’d all still be wrapped up in this fuckin’ lover’s spat all over again, and in the middle of another go of Overwatch, no less. They say history repeats itself, but hot damn.” 

Jesse’s words muddle together and Gabe can hardly focus around his tunnel vision. “The phone,” he manages around the lump that’s formed in his throat. 

Jesse grins wolfishly, all teeth, like the cat who’s got the cream. “Took a bullet. Just like in the fuckin’ movies. Shoulda seen it.” 

Gabe closes his eyes.

“Quite the sight,” Jesse continues. “Saved him from a bullet through the chest, if I’m rememberin’ right. Damn pretty bruise, though. Sprouted like a flower.”

“Get out,” Gabriel rasps. His eyes are still closed, but he doesn’t need to see anything to know that he’s turning to dust. 

Jesse just huffs. “Now, is that any way to treat a guest?” 

“ _Go_ ,” Gabe snarls. 

“I just gotta say one more thing.”

Gabriel opens his eyes. 

Jesse still stares at him, unperturbed even though Gabe is literally falling apart in front of him. He sets his hat back on his head and then stands, rolling his shoulders. He takes a step forward, and then another one, and Gabe almost loses his hold on the tiny thread of control he’s holding onto when he realizes Jesse McCree is wearing the same goddamned hat and serape from years ago, carrying around his history like a shield. 

“What was the turn of phrase I used a bit ago?” He strokes at his untrimmed goatee thoughtfully even though his eyes bore into Gabriel’s with precision. “Alive and well, I think it was.” 

Gabe inhales through his nose. His chest crackles like crumpled newspaper. When he exhales through his mouth, mist pours out. Jesse’s eyes follow the blackness as it dissipates between them, his eyebrows cinching together. He moves his lips like there’s a cigarette or a cigar to chew. It’s the first sign of nervousness he’s shown. 

“You ain’t,” he finally says, and then he tilts his head to the side, voice lowering. “Alive and well, I mean. But I reckon you could be. No time like the present, _jefe_ , to move on along from the past.” 

He walks forward and shoulders past Gabriel to get to the door. Part of Gabe’s arm goes up in smoke, but the rest of him feels the brunt of the body check. The cowboy’s spurs jingle as he moves, except then they don’t. 

“On second thought,” Jesse mutters. 

 Fingers dig into Gabriel’s shoulder. He’s spun around roughly, blackness streaming off of him like steam, and before he can really put two and two together, a metal fist nails him straight in the nose. 

Gabe stumbles backwards two steps before he steadies himself. Dark blood drips from his nostrils and pain radiates from the bridge of his nose through his cheeks. His fists clench and he almost launches himself at the other man, but through the red haze of rage, Jesse’s expression stops him. His skin is pale, but his eyes are overbright. 

He’s tired of people looking at him this way. 

“You deserve that n’ more,” Jesse spits, words gravel-rough. “You lyin’ sonuvabitch. After everything we been through, everything I did for you, I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me you were _alive_!” 

Gabriel doesn’t speak. He’s pretty sure his voice box has disintegrated. 

“But, like I said,” Jesse continues, adjusting his jacket and holding his head high, “I ain’t here for me.” 

This time, when he turns and leaves, he doesn’t come back.

***

 

Hours later, Gabriel’s still dust trickling through the shadows of his apartment when his landlady comes downstairs and leaves his dinner on the coffee table. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story just wants to be made up of short chapters. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. It's finally here. It's been so long between the third chapter and this one that I don't know if the feel is the same, but I hope you guys enjoy. Thank you for your amazingly kind words and for waiting around almost A YEAR for me to finally finish this series!

Gabriel hasn’t seen the city so alive in months. 

Overwatch had been busy, and in the many weeks since Jesse McCree’s visit, several large Los Muertos cells have been disbanded with the help of a very large, pink mecha that smashed heads together and destroyed warehouses. The decrease in gang activity brought the locals out in swarms, just in time for _Dia de los Muertos_. Gabriel doesn’t know the last time these people have been able to celebrate their decreased, and god knows there’s been a lot of gang-related deaths recently. The city has been suffering, and now it can finally rally and chase closure. 

Gabriel can empathize, even if it’s not as tangible or attainable for him. But he wants it. So badly. Ever since Jesse's visit, all he can think about is what it would it would be like.

As the sun begins to set and music drifts in through the open windows, Gabriel stares down. His white mask stares back up at him, impassive and yet still angry. He trails his fingers over the curve of the stark cheeks and brows. He hasn’t donned it in months, and tonight would be the night to put it back on. The dead are being celebrated. He could step back into a life he understands, a life that gave him purpose, so unlike the strange existence he leads now where he hoovers in limbo, dragging his feet on making any definitive move in any one direction. 

He touches the mask one last time before he sets it back in the velvet-lined case he purchased for it when he moved to Dorado. He can feel the buzz beneath his skin, the smoke wanting to pour out, but he doesn’t feed into the anxiety that shutting the mask away stirs up inside of him. He's gotten so good at swallowing it down, at dousing out the hum of his cells trying to split, and he would hate to break that streak now. Once he slides the box back under his bed, he dresses in dark pants and a dark button up, then steps outside into the chilled October dusk, face uncovered. 

There is so much color that at first, Gabriel just stops and stares. The street is filled with bodies dressed in colorful lace, their faces covered by ornately decorated skull masks or painted in a similar fashion. Flower petals coat the ground and dance around shuffling feet like confetti, and the _papier mache_ art strung along the light posts sways in the light breeze. The air is heavy with smoke from the candles, and butter from the _conchas_ , and the overpoweringly sweet floral scent of the chrysanthemums that are supposed to lead the dead home. 

Gabriel walks through it all, soaking it in and wondering where he fits in, because even after all this time, he’s still not sure. He feels like he has one foot on either side, strung up between life and death. The blackness still burns inside of him, a swirl of ash and smoke, and he knows that no matter what, even if he’s somehow cured one day, even if he finally leaves the Reaper behind for good, nothing will erased the charred remains it left behind. 

_And yet_ , he thinks. And yet. 

It’s like fate, really, when a young girl stops in front of Gabriel and tears him from his thoughts. She wears a white, decorative top and a flowing red skirt. Her face is painted white with black smudged around the eyes and on the tip of her nose, and gold flowers lined in red adorn her plump cheeks. He stares down at her for a moment, blinking, waiting for her to flinch at the vitiligo that mars his face. Instead, she plucks a golden bloom from the bouquet cradled in her arms, no doubt meant for a loved one who’s passed on, and holds it out to him. 

Gabriel’s heart clenches. He isn’t sure if the flower is meant for the Reaper or for the man who has a lot of people to mourn, but he takes it from her anyway, as delicately as he can, and smiles. She smiles back, dazzling him with white teeth, and then disappears into the crowd with a skip to her step.

Gabriel stares down at the flower. The pain in his chest intensifies, slides down into his stomach until his intestines are in knots. The hum resumes, a steady pulse just beneath his skin. He delicately loops the stem, making sure not to break it, and feeds the bundle into his front shirt pocket so that only the golden bloom shows. 

Not sixty seconds later, as Gabriel continues weaving through the crowd, a few bodies part and he lays eyes on Jack Morrison. 

He’s dressed in civilian clothes—denim jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, of all things— and he’s studying one of the alters with a very serious expression. Gabriel knows Jack had stationed himself here when he was only going by Soldier:76, and he wonders if Jack recognizes any of the faces on this particular alter, whether it be bad people he killed or good people he couldn’t save. 

Gabriel takes a step forward and stops. He’s thought about it for weeks and weeks, played over the possible meeting in his head until it was worn and torn like old paper, but he doesn’t know what he would say. What he should say. Smoke clogs his throat and threatens to spill out, fanned by the pounding of his pulse. People walk around him like water moving around a rock, completely nonplussed, as he stares. 

Jack’s shoulders tense suddenly, and then he looks up and right at Gabriel. Gabe feels a punch to the gut when they lock eyes, and he thinks Jack must feel it, too, because something in his expression crumbles before he schools it and wipes it blank. His eyes look more black than blue in the strange flicker of firelight from the various candles on the alter. He looks tired. A few more wrinkles line his face, especially around his grimly set lips.

Gabriel has a choice right now. An important one. His heart thuds against the chrysanthemum, and he lets it urge him forward, towards Jack who stands there, immobile as stone. As Gabriel comes closer, a wariness haunts his face, shows his age even more starkly. Jack’s hands ball into fists at his side and flex, like he can’t decide if he wants to punch or shoot or grab.

Gabe knows he could say a lot of things. He could tell the other man how he regrets leaving the night he set Talon aflame. He could say that he’s missed Jack, that he’s needed him but didn’t know how to make it work in the state he was in. He could ask after McCree, comment on Jack’s eyes, tell him that he loves him because he never said it enough before. 

Instead, when he’s basically toe to toe with Jack, he says, “Heard you broke your phone.”

Jack just stares, a muscle in his jaw jumping. 

Gabriel sighs, and a barely there wisp of black smoke leaks from between his lips. “Say something, Jack.”

“What should I be saying?” Jack asks, monotone. 

“That you missed me.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. 

The chrysanthemum burns against Gabe’s chest, still urging him forward. He has to make the decision of whether the flower is meant to lead him as a dead man or if it’s meant to be a way to honor a past he’s leaving behind. And he knows, deep down, that if he doesn’t do this, he may not have another chance with Jack. Despite the blood and tears that have been spilled between them, Gabriel is surprised to find that in this moment with candlelight flickering over Jack’s scowl, the jealousy and anger and distrust that dragged them down kicking and screaming doesn’t mean shit. It never should have. 

They were both so stupid. 

“I missed you,” he rasps, the words all but scraping up his throat and out of his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

Jack swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Gabe," he manages, warns. 

Gabriel sighs. "Jack."

The other man is on him before he can blink. 

His hands are warm against Gabriel’s cheeks, and his lips are warmer. Gabe can’t stop the gasp he emits, both at the sudden touch and at the burst of heat that flares in his chest. He surges forward, his hands fisting in the other man’s shirt, creasing the perfectly pressed cotton and dragging Jack forward until their bodies are flush together. He's been floating along, trying his damnedest not to be carried away by the smoke and ash, and he hasn't felt so grounded since the night Jack showed up at his safe house and made him remember what it was to be wanted. 

Around them, people whistle and laugh. 

“If you run away again,” Jack growls against Gabriel’s lips, his voice gravelly and barely audible around the sounds of the parade. “I can’t keep doing this with you, Gabe. I can’t. You either come back to me now or we have to be done for good.”

“I won’t run,” Gabe sighs into Jack’s skin and then nuzzles against his pulse point, which thrums erratically. “Not again. Never again.”

Jack's arms tighten around him. "Angela. She's been working hard." 

"I'm not coming back for that," Gabe says. "It wouldn't matter even if she didn't." 

Jack sighs. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

They link hands, and Gabriel wordlessly tugs Jack back the way he came. They barely make it through Gabe’s front door before they’re tearing off each other’s clothing, hands and lips everywhere, nails scratching and teeth sinking into flesh. They stumble through the dark and knock into a chair before finally tripping through the doorway to Gabriel’s room. Gabe falls back onto the bed and takes Jack with him, and he groans, body arching upwards, as they press together. 

Jack doesn’t ask what Gabriel wants. He retrieves the bottle from Gabriel’s rickety nightstand, slicks his fingers, and opens Gabe up with barely reigned in fervor. Even restrained, Jack is rough, like he wants to leave marks, like he wants Gabriel to feel the ache in the morning. He bites at and sucks on Gabe’s neck and then covers Gabe’s mouth with his own when he finds the spot that makes him buck up and gasp. 

Nothing compares to the way Jack presses into him, slow and steady. The weight. The fullness. Gabriel wraps his arms around him, clinging to Jack and snarling as the heat in his stomach pools to the point of bursting, until he can’t hold back and nearly sobs his release into Jack’s mouth. Jack fists his hands in Gabriel’s hair and comes with Gabe’s name on his lips. 

***

Later, when Jack is asleep in a cocoon of Gabe’s sheets, Gabriel slips out of bed and pads out into the living room. It takes him a few minutes in the dark, but he finally finds his shirt, thrown to a far corner of the living room, and retrieves the flower, still anchored in his pocket. The petals have someone been spared despite the desperate way they rid each other of their clothes.

When he returns to the bedroom, he drops silently to his knees and retrieves the box, opening the lid so that he can set the chrysanthemum atop the mask. As he stares down, he can more feel than see blackness seeping from his skin. The fear is there, fear that he can’t change, that the damn flower and the dead will always call him back to this mask and the thing it makes him become, but there’s something else, too, something that helps him take a steadying breath and closes the lid. He shoves the box back under the bed and climbs in to next to Jack, who sleepily turns towards him. Reaches for him. Slurs his name and wraps his arms around him. 

_This is the only way_ , Gabriel thinks, and allows himself to be pulled in to Jack’s heated embrace. For as chilled as Gabriel’s skin is, Jack’s is the opposite, like a warm fire on a cold night. Gabriel sinks into the feeling and wonders why he let everything else turn him to ashes for so long when it could have been this. 

Yeah. This is the only way he’s willing to let himself burn up.

**Author's Note:**

> Were there enough angsty analogies for you? God, I hope so.


End file.
